


Memoirs From Mordhaus

by Volitan



Series: Memoirs From Mordhaus [1]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Abuse of Upright Pianos, Day-to-day Dethklok activity, Gen, I think of the plots while bored at work, Original Character(s), OverKloking the Accents (see what I did there? that's as clever as it gets), Squillionaires with little intelligence and too much time on their hands, Things that Health & Safety are not going to be happy about, beheading gingerbread men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:03:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volitan/pseuds/Volitan
Summary: The end is the beginning of the memoirs from Mordhaus.A folio of works that catalogue the general insanity of Dethklok with very little rhyme, reason or continuity.





	1. Prologue: The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

Memoirs from Mordhaus, Prologue: The End

 

The chapel of rest was silent as the closest mourners said their last farewell before the lid of the coffin was forever closed. 

The tiny elderly woman appeared asleep, her eyes closed amid the happy wrinkles; waist-length white hair pulled into two neat plaits on either side of her head, little silver cogs graced the hair ties at their terminus, and a platinum clockwork crown that previously ticked like a watch was still and silent.

"Oh, I came across this yesterday." Whispered the woman's son, placing a hardback book in the little space at her feet that contained a few other personal items.

The funeral director quietly asked permission before picking up the book, inspecting the cover and then the fly-leaf.

"Being the only Death Care establishment in Mordland, you could say that we've seen a few things over the years - and my Granny, who set this place up had so many stories... But that's a first edition of 'Memoirs of Mordhaus', signed by all of Dethklok, personal messages scribbled in the margins. That's number thirteen of the exactly-one-hundred first editions printed. Number thirteen has never found its way to an auction or a display at a gallery or museum. It was thought it was a myth!"

"Not a myth, you're holding it" the son said, gently running his finger tips over his mother's arthritic knuckles where they were clasped over her stomach.

"You know, The Memoirs are a collection of stories from the band, there's no rhyme and reason to the flow - just stories randomly put together in one folio..." the funeral director gently placed the book back into the coffin, "Are you sure she would want it cremating with her body, sir? It must be worth..."

"The worth is that she's laughing her arse off in heaven right now." Chipped in a man from the corner of the room with a grin, loosening his dog collar from around his throat.

"Oh, I didn't see you come in, Reverend." said the death care worker.

"You know, she'd genuinely be in histerics knowing that the collectors won't get #13." the priest clarified with a grin; the other mourners broke into fits of giggles.

"We still have editions 1-through-8 in the bank vault." said the most senior of three woman, her previously black hair streaked liberally with grey.

"Oh, are you collectors?" Asked the funeral director.

"Something like that." They chorussed simultaneously, laughing once more.

"Come on, let's say goodnight and leave her to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day." the lady's son said, leaning down to whisper in another language and kiss her forehead.


	2. Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At that moment, Abigail came to a conclusion: angels were not celestial beings in white robes, with wings and halos sitting on clouds playing harps... They were a five-foot tall, ninety-pound, modest-pencil-dress-wearing assistant who had a mastery of both BlackDeth Phone and coffee maker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

Abigail pushed the chair backwards away from the desk, watching as the various LEDs blinked off as the equipment shut down. It was enough for the day, another two tracks of the latest Dethklok album locked down (and backed up in triplicate to prevent Nathan from deleting them). She met Dick Knubbler's robotic eyes and they smiled. Cups of coffee had been delivered to them, and the producer-cum-manager took a tentative sip before following it with a large gulp.

"I wish Crystal Mountain could match the Dethklok salary, I'd employ you just for the coffee! Plus my email account has never looked so organised!" Knubbler joked.

At that moment, Abigail came to a conclusion: angels were not celestial beings in white robes, with wings and halos sitting on clouds playing harps... They were a five-foot tall, ninety-pound, modist-pencil-dress-wearing assistant who had a mastery of both BlackDeth Phone and coffee maker.

"I have no idea what you do to make Deathklok's official coffee actually drinkable, Layla, but I love you for it." Abigail muttered, winking at the petite woman who was sliding into the seat next to her.

"Well, not attempting to make it in a toaster helped; and adding hot water, not beer, yielded a much better result." She replied softly, sipping on her own beverage of choice: Earl Grey with lemon.

"At least they are genius musicians... If a bit lacking in other skills." Knubbler chuckled.

Shaking her head, Abigail wondered how she'd coped without Layla her after Charles had gone to be leader of a cult and taken his assistant with him (the bastard). The only blessing was that Charles now sat on the board of directors, and didn't object to being on speed-dial.

The memory of Layla's arrival flashed through her mind and made Abigail smile into the hot beverage.

 

...

 

After being rescued with Toki from the tortures of Magnus, Abigail had been offered the role of producer for the new album. Purely as a peace offering at the time - not because the band, except Toki, actually wanted her to produce the album. It also gave her free twenty-four hour access to a psychologist; which she took great advantage of. 

However, she couldn't be both producer and manager at the same time and be expected to do a credible job at both tasks. The first call Abigail made was to Charles to bitch at him, the second to Dick to get him on the next flight to Mordhaus.

The search for an assistant had thankfully been done by Charles, who knew that nobody could manage the band without an assistant Charles and the previous PA had painstakingly picked through the thousands of submitted CVs, interviewing only five people.

The young woman arrived at Mordhaus wearing a very sensible, knee length, grey pencil dress and a perfectly coordinating suit jacket; black round-toe court shoes with a kitten heel; dark blonde hair pulled into a sleek bun at the exact centre of the back of her head, not one single hair out of place. She wore an un-branded, plain black backpack and dragged a small plain black suitcase with wheels behind her up the drive to the band's home.

She was accompanied by a man in his late fifties who dragged a much larger matching black case, the strap of a laptop bag diagonally over his shoulder, bisecting a Led Zeppelin tee shirt.

"Woah! Doods! That's a Gold Hood!" Pickles said from the couch where the whole band and Abigail had gathered to observe the entrance of the new assistant via one of the CCTV camera drones.

"A what?" Abigail asked, not remembering a mention of that from the dense handover notes Charles had provided; admittedly there were seven volumes of notes, and she hadn't had time to learn them all yet.

"Whoever she's with is a retired Klokateer. If they survive to retirement, they're presented with a silk hood that's sewn with a unique design with gold thread. Those ones don't cover the face though, no need to keep them anonymous as they leave." Nathan replied, trying to be nice to their producer-turned-manager (partially because she dealt with their antics, a little bit because she was helping Nubbler make major headway on their latest album, but mainly because he really wanted to get into her pants).

"Ja, Toki ams doings da densigns. Alls is personals to thems. Specials. Tokis is not dildos at drawings when he aktuallies puts efforts in." Skwisgarr piped up, watching the big screen while simultaneously playing his guitar.

"Make it zooms in, I wants to sees!" the rhythm guitarist said with glee; Murderface zoomed the camera in, close enough to the young woman's chest to reveal that her grey pencil dress had a lilac pinstripe. "Nots the boobies, Moiderface, the hoods on da man withs her!"

"Oh, schorry. No rack anyway; looksh likesh a baby librarian. No curvsh at all." the disappointed bassist muttered, manoeuvring the camera drone to better see the back of the hood.

"Oh looks theres! It's beings Barry! I liked hims. I dids hims a guitar designs. He was mine guitar tech after we gets da first album. He havings diabetics too, he had candies I could eats in his pocket alls the time." Toki said, bouncing on the ball of his feet, now with his nose an inch from the screen.

"I tries to gets him promoteds to mine guitar tech. He not does its, says its times he goes homes looks afters his mother. I t'ink dat dildos ideas." Skwisgarr replied, "Waits, I thoughts his names am Larry.

"Naw, Larry was tha dood who always had exactly tha right screwdriver on him for whatevah yah needed. Seriously, he only evah had screwdrivers... he got himself stabbed by one, bled to death while looking for a hammer." The drummer supplied.

"Brutal" Nathan said with a nod.

Abigail was looking down the email Charles had sent regarding her new assistant, "Layla..."

"Doobie doobie doobie dooo, Dow Dow Dow Dow Dow Dow dooooow." sang Pickles mimicking a guitar riff.

"W'ats was t'at's?" Toki asked, not recognising it.

"Oh good gawd, it's Clapton! You know, from tha track 'Layla'... How can yah naht know that?" the drummer replied.

"Doesn't sound metal." Nathan chipped in.

"Well, it's naht. But it's a pretty awesome song!" The drummer enthused.

"Shounds crap." Murderface muttered.

"Well my mouth ain't a guitar." Pickles argued.

"That's and being wierds if your mouths ams beings guitar... How's you eats? Shoulds I gets mine guitar breakfast nows?" Toki replied, looking to Skwisgaar, the blonde simply shrugged in reply.

Abigail cleared her throat, "As I was saying, Layla Charlotte Williamson..."

"Notsh a relation!" Murderface cried out.

"Dildo, cannot be William-son, is ladies nots a sons." The Swede muttered.

"... Twenty-one years old, from England, all-girls boarding school, first class business studies degree, straight out of university not actually had a full time job before, just evening bar work... Really Charles?!"

Abigail paused, feeling worried, but continued: "Her Father, Barry Williamson, is a retired roadie from when Mordhaus II was built, he worked here while his daughter was away at school; her Mother left when she was a baby... Not much of note on this brief."

 

As Father and Daughter arrived at the side entrance to the home of the world's biggest metal band, they were met by an enormous crowd of fully-hooded klokateers, who stood to attention as one of their own returned to the fold for a visit. There was a rush of back-slapping, hand shaking and luggage being whisked away.

"Please follow me, Milady. You're expected." Said one of the hooded men, bowing and then offering his arm to the new assistant.

"Milady?" She asked, looking over her shoulder at her Father.

"Yes baby girl, it's the proper title for you as assistant to the manager; she'll be called 'Her Ladyship'. Anyone calls you 'miss', you kick 'em where it hurts."

"Why, Dad?" She asked, puzzled.

"Because 'miss' is what the sluts and groupies being brought in or out of the place are called..." Barry turned to look the hovering drone straight in the lens "And my baby girl is not in that category. I know you can all hear me."

"Daddy! Don't get me sacked before I've actually started this job, please? Don't worry, nobody else needs to be thrown in the garden pond any time soon." She said, kissing his cheek before straightening her posture and taking the offered arm.

 

"Whell, thatsh just rude. We don't fucksh the sthaff, itsh a rule." Murderface grumbled, passing the drone controller off to a waiting klokateer, who flew it back to its charging point.

"Garden pond?" Abigail questioned, her puzzled expression quite adorable from where the vocalist was standing. Nathan made a mental note to organise a band meeting to change the rule on 'not fucking the staff'.


	3. Marks Out of Forty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why did finance murder the rainforest to produce a report this time?" the manager asked, sipping her coffee, waiting for the band to arrive for their Monday meeting.
> 
> "It isn't from finance... its from the DeathSlut In-Chief." Layla replied, "She slept with the whole band and then wrote a report. They've all got a mark out of forty possible points; there are graphs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

Abigail turned to her assistant, who was flipping through an inch-thick, spiral-bound report and had a facial expression fluctuating rapidly between amusement, amazement and pure confusion.

"Why did finance murder the rainforest to produce a report this time?" the manager asked, sipping her coffee, waiting for the band to arrive for their Monday meeting.

"It isn't from finance... its from the DeathSlut In-Chief." Layla replied, "She slept with the whole band last month and then wrote a report. They've all got a mark out of forty possible points."

"You what?!" Abigal asked, just as the doors to the great hall crashed open and the hungover band piled in, "You have to be joking."

"No joke, there are graphs and everything. It's rather comprehensive." Layla chuckled, displaying the pages in question flat on the table.

"Doods, this is progress reht here... Remember thet groupie who had sex with tha whole band? Well, she's wrote reviews." Pickles said, drawing attention, causing everyone to huddle around the assistant to get a look at the only physical copy of the report. 

Nathan howled with laughter: "Look! Murderface scored five, out of a possible forty points."

"There is am sayings about stones houses and glass throws, Nat'an." Toki muttered.

"I don't quite follow?" Abigail asked, ignored as the conversation continued around her, and unable to get in to have a look for herself.

Pickles threw back his head and cheered, "Fuckin' A, I got second place in thet ranking with thirty-two points! I think whatever-her-name-was took over tha Official DethSlut Club by buying it out a few years ago." 

"Was she the slut with the purple hair; big tits, green eye liner and awful handwriting? Nathan queried, snapping his fingers twice at a silent servant, who immediately scurried away.

"Based on that description, I think we've had a couple of conference calls with her; very astute business woman. She's provided us with a lot of intelligence on fans who are particularly... well, 'rabid' is the word she used. She's helped security a lot. I was going to suggest a business case to the board to bring her in-house, she's also a private investigator - they're always useful." Layla said, neutrally.

"Is she the one who also pointed us in the direction of that place that makes those steel-toecap heels too?" Abigail asked.

"Yes, that's her." Layla replied.

"Oh, I love these shoes! Great for getting the message across with a swift kick to somewhere sensitive - but still suitable for the office and manage to be pretty... I didn't realise she'd slept with *all* of you." Abigail looked down at the afore-mentioned shoes as she considered that.

"I wins zat. Got am thirtys eight; gots am forty days after dat whens brings her back am gets full score - buts dids not counts for dat reports." The lead guitarist said, not even remotely smug, it was a simple statement of fact.

"Hang on a moment... You knew about the grading system, Skwisgaar?" Layla asked, bemused.

"Oh ja, I havings tried lots of da kinky you-knows-whats... but nobody ever bringing a clipboards and forms wit check-boxes to beds befores. I gots nervous, likes da drivings tests - I nots gets da full marks da foirst time." the blonde shrugged, taking his seat at the table and accepting his full skull mug of coffee from the Klokateer with a silver tray. 

"Oh fuck you, blondie. Jusht becaush you came firsht." Murderface spat.

"Pfft, dat is whys you am beings last in da rankings, Moiderface." the Swede retorted, rolling his eyes

Abigail and Layla looked at each other, both wishing for the fifth time that day that they worked somewhere that events like this weren't considered normal.

"I ams thirds..." Toki mumbled, cut off by Nathan as he snatched the report and accepted his reading glasses from the hooded member of staff (who had run the length of the castle and-back to get them at the clicking fingers).

"Look, we're working on the new album, I just had to stop and write those lyrics down right then; didn't think she'd, you know, mind. Being a fan she shouldn't have minded? Right? That's actually the title track..." Nathan rumbled, looking over his glasses at Abigail, who didn't look impressed, "Hey, Abigail... Are we still going out on a date on Saturday?"

"I think I'll take a rain check on that." Abigal sneered.

"And maybe read the PDF version of the report I've just emailed you..." Layla whispered.

Murderface had managed to wrestle the report from the vocalist and was holding it at arms-length and squinting; flipping to the pages written about him, he spluttered formless noises, unable to respond any other way. He threw it down on the table, and was positioning himself to stab it perfectly with his third-favourite knife; but it was quickly snatched by the lead guitarist, who quickly skimmed every executive summary; Toki leaning over his shoulder.

After a few minutes, Skwisgaar actually banged his head on the table and spoke from behind where his long hair had fallen over his face, "Yous ams alls dildos! But yous ams all dildos that cants evens be doings sex, so yous is anti-dildos! Except Pickles, whos ams at least knowings what cwitoris is, he is just dildos."

"I thenk thet might jhest be a compliment! Ahm taking it!" Pickles cheereed, sitting down and accepting his first booze of the day.

"I know whatsh itsh is!" Murderface cried, leaping to his feet, "Itsh the thing thatsh catterpillarsh come outsh of when they are butterflysh."

The drummer howled with laughter, falling off his chair and laying on the floor, tears streaming down his face and unable to breathe. Layla reached into her backpack and passed him his little-used reactionary inhaler.

Murderface was still mumbling away, "And you havsh to holdsh them sho gentlsh, sho gentlsh. Hash to be sho careful with them."

"Nots everys goils and get off ams that, but being best ways to begins... you knows, you should has tried dat wit da lady wit da clipboard!" Skwisgaar said, the whole room staring at the bassist.

"And then you shtabsh them with the pin! Right through their tiny littlesh body into the board! And another, and another untilsh the whole frame ish full of dead inshects."

"Jaysus. Thet score of five was a goddamn miracle!" Pickles chuckled from where he had ended up under the table. He handed back his asthma medication after two quick puffs. He hadn't laughed so hard in ages and it was hard to exhale, while not negative, the almost uncontrollable laughter was quite a stress.

"I don'ts wants am hurt butterfly! Hey, I don'ts remembering any bugs wit da clipboard lady; dids I miss dat?" Toki said, looking worried.

"So, shall we begin this week's meeting?" Abigail began, pulling the agenda from a sheaf of papers.

"Not until you tell me if we're going on a date on Saturday." Nathan snarled.

"Glass houses nots throws stones." Toki stage-whispered.

"Remember, Your Ladyship: steel toe caps." Layla also stage-whispered, grinning as she uncapped her pen, ready to take minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just realised I've accidentally named the entire fic the 'Prologue'. Whoops. I'll go back and fix that now. I've never written a series before, so I muddled that up.


	4. Ten Feet to the Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was during one such tender presentation; where sadly, the CEO speaking wasn't really knowledgeable enough about what one of his staff had produced; that there was a sudden ALMIGHTY CACOPHONOUS CRASH through the slightly open window. It startled the visiting marketing executives, they looked to the hooded figures, who hadn't even flinched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

Abigail had absolutely none of the loyalty that Charles had demonstrated to Dethklok's suppliers. As contracts with third parties started to draw to a close, the new manager put them out to tender. If you wanted to work with Dethklok on her watch, you had to prove your worth and value.

What that created was an utter headache for the administration Klokateers and Layla, as they had to separate the wheat from the chaff before the potential companies even received an invitation to anywhere near the drawbridge to Mordhaus. Charles had arrived, to support Abigail in her quest for improvement. Things were quiet with the Church of Black Klok - as was the tendency for secret cult organisations - and he (quote) 'needed a fix of bat-shittery like Skwisgaar needs his Gibson'.

Giving any potential company exactly-one-hundred hours from the tender announcement to submit a proposal, tested them for the capacity and flexibility they needed to have in order to cope with the flux of creative insanity demanded by the band. If a company made it through the initial selection, they had precisely thirty minutes to present to a boardroom of silent, hooded, identically-dressed staff (of which Charles, Abigail and Layla were hidden amongst various Klokateer department heads).

It was during one such tender presentation (where sadly, the CEO speaking wasn't really knowledgeable enough about what one of his staff had produced to do it justice); that there was a sudden ALMIGHTY CACOPHONOUS CRASH through the slightly open window. It startled the visiting marketing executives, they looked to the hooded figures, who hadn't even flinched.

Another ALMOST MELODIC CRASH flowed through the window, and one of the Klokateers went to have a look, pulling a walkie-talkie from their belt.

"Dragon Head to Seige Engine, over."

"Shiege Enghine here. How far did we missh by? Over."

"You're ten feet off-target to the left. Over."

"Fucksh. We need to change the angle. Over and out."

Layla replaced the walkie-talkie before returning to her seat at the table. The presentation had ground to a halt, the enormous thirty minute hourglass (appropriated from Jean-Pierre) continued to trickle sand. Presenters never got any additional time.

"What was that?" The CEO asked, jumping as there was another CRASHING RACKET.

"Oh, our bassist has sponsored a university project; students from six educational institutions and a team of master craftsmen have constructed a trebuchet using traditional materials and methods. They're helping with the remodelling project by demolishing a few castle walls." A male hooded figure said, the presenters having absolutely no clue that it was Charles.

"But what's all that noise?!" The manager, sitting in the corner - whose work had been butchered by his boss's-boss's-boss's-boss, asked. There was no point keeping his mouth shut now, he knew that the CEO had completely screwed it up.

"According to records from the time, this particular design of trebuchet was reported to be able to fire a horse carcass... The universities' health and safety department weren't too keen on that; and the construction workers' trade union were rather unwilling to cooperate with dead-horse-demolition. The closest substitute that could be found at short notice were upright pianos." Somebody explained.

There was another BOING CRASH, this time accompanied by the crumbling of masonry and distant cheers.

"I do believe that was a hit." A different hood chipped in.

"Why not use bulldozers?" Another one of the visitors asked, watching as the last grains of sand fell to the bottom bulb of the half-hourglass.

"Oh, the groundskeepers get a tad trigger-happy when anyone goes near the lawns. Construction workers wearing high-viz and driving great big yellow machinery aren't well camouflaged against automatic weapons." Another Klokateer added.

"We need to find a way to distract them next week when the actual construction work starts." Piped up someone else.

"A couple of tons of geraniums?" Came a suggestion, the table now completely ignoring the presenters.

"That'll only give the construction team about two days. They need two months to build the new facilities."

"How are they not flipping their lids at pianos being launched at the lawn? Are geraniums really the best distraction? Why not lock them in a dungeon with every single episode of 'Groundforce' and a box of tissues?" The business case's author asked, giving up hope and blurting out the first thing that came to mind. His CEO gave him a thunderous look.

"You know, that's the sort of thinking that got your tender presentation over the drawbridge... Might actually work." Layla mused, making a note.

"What's 'Groundforce'?" Another department head asked from around the table, flicking through the search results on their Deathphone, "Oh...That'll work."

"I don't really think our company is quite the right fit for Dethklok." The CEO mumbled, looking at his colleagues with a baffled expression, now not even sparing a glance at the colleague who had submitted the proposal, plotting how he could remove him from his position without resulting in an unfair dismissal court case.

"Indeed. Please follow the Klokateers to the exit. Don't forget the body armour they'll provide you with. And we strongly advise that you don't walk on the grass." Abigail said cheerfully... "You, presentation author... you stay behind. As soon as they're out of the room your thirty minutes begins. Please don't be quite so mind-numbingly-boring."

"T-t-thank you!" He stuttered in surprise at a second chance. Ignoring the furious facial expression of his executives as they were ushered out of the Mordhaus Board Room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: 'Groundforce' was a gardening TV program from the UK in the nineties. They had a fondness for decking, shrubs and water features. Oh, and the female presenter rarely wore a bra.
> 
> I watched a documentary last week where (genuinely) a team of historians were launching pianos from a trebuchet because it was impractical to use a horse carcass. Struck me as something that Dethklok would do. (Seriously, what sort of thought process got the historians from 'dead horse' to 'upright piano'??)


	5. Terabites and Baby Powder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was Monday, the band were still recovering from the weekend hangover and hadn't started on the post-brunch drinking yet. The weekly meeting had been its usual disaster and Layla's notes included 'un-rust the Iron Maiden', 'does it count as testing on animals if we put corpsepaint on the taxidermy?', and 'find out why Pickles smells of baby powder'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

Terabites and Baby Powder

It was Monday, the band were still recovering from the weekend hangover and hadn't started on the post-brunch drinking yet. The weekly meeting had been its usual disaster and Layla's notes included 'un-rust the Iron Maiden', 'does it count as testing on animals if we put corpsepaint on the taxidermy?', and 'find out why Pickles smells of baby powder'.

"Okay, any other business?" Abigail asked, wincing in preparation.

"I was readings in da news..." Skwisgaar began, interrupted swiftly by Layla.

"It is estimated that one sperm contains about 37.5 Megabites of data within the DNA it carries, and considering the volume of an average ejaculation, that's about fifteen-hundred Terabites... Otherwise known as the amount of data if every single computer used by the admin Klokateers had their memory added together."

Skwisgaar, Nathan and William looked at each other and screamed. Making a dive for under the table, tugging Toki with them (Pickles still smelled too odd to include).

"Duck and cover people! Duck and cover!" The vocalist yelled, his large black-nailed hand reaching back up for his tape recorder.

"Why ams we under da table?" Toki asked, "Nat'an, can you reaching mine breakfast?"

"Oh, sure buddy, here you go." A banana and a bowl of muesli were grabbed.

"Schrews breakfast! Call the doctor, this chrazy lady needsh a lobotomy! Or whatever getsh rid of psychick powers!" Murderface whimpered, punctuated by Toki munching away.

"The Assisting readings minds!!" Screamed Skwisgaar.

"At a guess she just read the paper before you did, doods." Pickles chuckled, flicking to the obituary section too see if anyone he knew had died.

"Pickles, in all seriousness, why do you smell rather over-poweringly of baby powder?" Abigail asked, ignoring the pandemonium beneath the table. It was one of those skills you just had to have when dealing with Dethklok.

"I'm nhat fully sure... but I ghat ah feeling eht was the groupie thet wanted me to call her 'Mommy' with the really huge boobs... I woke ahp wearing a onesie covered in cartoon ducklings and a bonnet." The drummer replied, reaching for a rather uncharacteristic glass of milk.

"Well, that's one action off the list." Layla said rising and heading after Abigail to their office, "We need to tell the security team to do a better job of searching the groupies before they come in."

 

 

It took Twinkletits an hour to coax Murderface, Nathan and Skwisgaar from under the table; repeatedly stating that humans couldn't read minds. When the therapist mentioned that it had been easy for Layla to predict what Skwisgaar was going to ask, they dashed back under: Layla wasn't telepathic, she had the gift of foresight (and they didn't want spoilers for the rest of their lives).

Pickles and Toki stayed at the table, completing the puzzle page of the newspaper. Toki finding the gentle infant aroma of Pickles remarkably soothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read an article of how much data is in DNA... I had a feeling that the band would bring it up.


	6. Anniversary in White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I finds dem in backs of mines wardrobe, thoughts I woulds brings dems." The Swede said with a grin, a cloud of ladies underwear was suddenly thrown at the stage.
> 
> "Awws, he wents all nolstelgick." Toki giggled.
> 
> "Fuck you Schwishgaar! Fuck off! You fucking bashtard!" Murderface screamed, furious. The lead guitarist grinned evilly back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

There was a small debate at breakfast that afternoon: was celebrating the anniversary of the first major gig Dethklok played as the headline brutal? And should they re-create it?

As it had been Pickles's idea originally, he was (obviously) a 'yes' vote.  
Nathan wasn't sure if anniversaries were brutal or not  
Murderface declared it gay  
Toki was up for it, but only if he got one solo  
Skwisgaar hadn't had enough coffee yet to wade into the argument (but Toki definitely wasn't getting any solos)

In the background, Layla was already emailing back and forth with the venue; it was a little run down these days, and didn't have the facilities Dethklok were now used to... But they were absolutely delighted for the band to play in four months.

Abigail contacted Charles, it seemed only polite to include him in this.

 

 

Choosing a set list from many years of tracks had resulted in Abigail and Layla (with the help of the security Klokateers) splitting up three physical fights and dozens of arguments. 

At a press conference, sporting a black eye, Nathan Explosion ordered the fans to go to the official Dethklok website and vote for their favourite; they'd play the ones with the highest votes. Murderface, his knee bound from where he'd sprained it attempting to kick Skwisgaar, added that they only had twenty-four hours to vote.

The final tally was actually rather reassuring - every album was featured; and not necessarily with the tracks the bookies were tipping. Millions of dollars were won and lost as fans gambled on what would appear on the set list. Charles, the clever bastard, made several hundred thousand dollars with the bets he had made - he knew the fans better than they knew themselves.

 

 

On the big screen behind the band was a cycling slide show of images - all courtesy of Charles, who had recorded their first gig (and it's preparation) for prosperity.

Nathan sponging a teenage Toki's face white, towering over him.  
Murderface actually smiling up at the camera as he knelt down to tie his boots.  
Pickles, with quite a bit more hair than now, setting up his drums on stage.  
Skwisgaar in a pair of snow-white Levis, bare footed, bare chested, sat in the green room tuning his guitar.  
Candid shots of them during the very first sound check, equipment held together with tape and threats.  
Nathan before-and-after putting on the first executioner's hood (which he'd picked up on a whim from a costume shop)

With a few moments to go, the goofy images, switched to the one that graced the inside of the booklet from the first album... And morphed perfectly into their today-selves in the same pose, seconds before the heavy chords of their very first live piece as headliners.

The fans went wild. Blood spilled. Booze flowed. All was good.

 

It was after the intermission that Pickles noticed something odd. Skwisgaar wasn't wearing the typical black leather pants he usually wore on stage (leather was wipe-clean, much more convenient when horny panty-less groupies were climbing his legs). For some bizzare reason, the lead guitarist was wearing white denim.

"Dood... You are seriously naht wearing *those* jeans!" He called into his microphone after the cheers of the fans died down as Nathan paused for a sip of water.

"I finds dem in backs of mines wardrobe, thoughts I woulds brings dems." The Swede said with a grin, a cloud of ladies underwear was suddenly thrown at the stage.

"Awws, he wents all nolstelgick." Toki giggled.

"Fuck you Schwishgaar! Fuck off! You fucking bashtard!" Murderface screamed, furious. The lead guitarist grinned evilly back. 

Murderface and Nathan had both spread sideways since the band formed. (Admittedly, had he not spent the past twelve months joining Toki on his morning run, Skwisgaar wouldn't have fit into them either!)

"How the unholy fuck do those still even fit you?!" Nathan growled, gobsmacked.

"Dey don'ts... Dey abouts two inches too shorts ats da legs." Toki commented, noticing that his fellow guitarist was barefoot, a lot of ankle on show, the Swede hadn't bothered to put his boots back on.

"We never did get the hang ahv the little symbols on the laundry tags... Didn't mean to shrink your jeans, dood." Pickles said with a blush beneath his corpse paint. "Like fucking Egyptian hieroglyphs!"

"Is that what those paintings on the pyramids really are? Laundry instructions? Brutal." Nathan muttered, the microphone picking it up. The loyal audience immediately set about booking trips to Egypt to see for themselves.

"Mine pants did nots fits any more; dey weres in da storage box. To smalls." Toki chipped in, earning a laugh from the crowd.

"Toki, you're practically a foetus in those pictures..." Nathan chuckled.

"... No, dats because Skwisgaar takes his boots off, hims feets sweaty." Toki replied, fiddling with the tuning of his E string.

"Foetus, not feet!" Murderface snipped, teeth bared in a snarl.

Smug as all-fuck, Skwisgaar turned the rest of the performance into a catwalk, strutting up-and-down the stage in his white jeans. Murderface was so angry that he couldn't even get his wee-wee to play his bass solo; so Toki charged in and had a few moments of the limelight to himself after-all.


	7. Brief Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Okay, any other business today?" she asked, cringing in preparation for what might possibly come next.
> 
> "Yesh, I do - here." Murderface said, tossing a bundle of white fabric onto the table. The rest of the band eyed it with trepidation, none of them getting too close to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

It had come to the time in the Monday meeting that Abigail had come to dread...

"Okay, any other business today?" she asked, cringing in preparation for what might possibly come next.

"Yesh, I do - here." Murderface said, tossing a bundle of white fabric onto the table. The rest of the band eyed it with trepidation, none of them getting too close to it.

Using their pens to poke and tug, the two women unravelled it.

"William, is there any particular reason that you've written all over a pair of underpants?" Layla asked, trying to make sense of the dreadful script.

"I've made some brief notesh for the Planet Pish businesh proposhal - jusht like you askhed." the bassist clarified, "I wrote them on my briefsh, I alwaysh freeball now, so itsh recycling. I'm gonna schave the planet or some schit like that."

"That wasn't quite what we meant..." Abigail sighed.

"I'll pass these on to marketing, and we'll take it from there..." Layla muttered; using two pens like chopsticks to pick up the garment. While they smelled of washing powder, the stains were not something the assistant was prepared to handle without gloves. She'd have to have the pens incinerated.

After that, a Klokateer in the ISD department made it so that all intraoffice memorandums sent through the system had a watermark of Facebones with a pair of Y-fronts worn on his skull, the side-horns coming out through the leg-holes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Hubby is away on business in London; our house is making funny noises (that I'm sure it doesn't normally make) and my anxiety is just about dampened down. To distract, I've got series 1 of Metalocalypse in the DVD player, and I'm typing up some of the scribbled fics from my notebook.


	8. Windmills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh, I guesh that schettles the argument... we shcould come in here more often." Murderface said, leading the way as the band filed back out of the office; not even a word of goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

"You need to settle an argument for us." Nathan said, slamming open the door to the office where Abigail and Layla worked, startling the two women.

"We have a conference call with the label in thirty minutes, can we settle this quickly?" Layla pointed out, checking the schedule.

"Doubt it, they've been at this for three hours... Murderface thinks that they put windmills in fields to keep cows cool in summer." the vocalist rumbled.

"Beef should only get warm when you cook it into stheak!" the bassist yelled, stabbing his knife into Layla's desk.

"Dood, we keep telling yah, that ain't what windmills are for!" Pickles chipped in.

"Isn't itsh what all thoshe animal rightsh charitesh are campaigning for - better cooling for cowsh?" And Shceep! They musht get all warm wearing all that wool!" Murderface continued, looking thoughtful.

"I think you might have got things a little bit muddled up here..." Abigail began.

She was cut off by Toki; who had enlisted Laya's help in holding parts of a model plane while he applied glue. "Moiderface, havings you evens been ons a farm? Theys is *outside*, they gots lots of cooling."

"Yesh, but in shummer you'd need a fucking big fan to cool them down - so thatsh why they have windmillsh!"

"Windmills are for making flour and dancing mice, dickwad." Nathan grumbled, disappointed that Abigail's desk didn't contain anything even remotely interesting - not one single laser pointer to be found.

"Yous ams all dildos!" Skwisgaar snapped, his hands stilling on his guitar, "Windmills ams beings so old-fashions now - its beings all ecos friendly wit da wind turbines nows!"

"Oh, I guesh that schettles the argument... we shcould come in here more often." Murderface said, leading the way as the band filed back out of the office; not even a word of goodbye.

"Oh no. I have a problem." Layla moaned.

"Would you like to replace your desk fan for a small wind turbine?" Abigail joked.

"No, but Toki has managed to get glue on my keyboard..." the Brit sighed, trying to peel her fingers away from the letters with zero success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I entirely blame the YouTube video 'Top 10 Dumbest Tweats - Part 47' for this fic.


	9. Diversion Tactics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Its dull as f***s grey." he whispered, eyeing her from top to toe. The blonde efficiently worked through all the fastenings. "You knowings you nots havings da t*ts for dis outfit, ja?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

There was a whole binder of handover notes dedicated to the annual visit of the band's family. Every single previous attempt to make the visit as pain free as possible were meticulously detailed. The vast majority had barely succeeded (assuming that you counted one of the band members not murdering their parent/guardian as success).

"I guess plan #26 was the least-ineffective of the plans that Charles came up with; we could try that again." Abigail said to Layla the day before the arrival of the guests.

"How about we think outside the box and do something new." The assistant said with a sly smirk.

"You have a plan? A better plan than a full folio put together by a master-strategist who knows the band better than they know themselves?" Abigail asked, "What did you have in mind?" 

"Remember that mistake with your schedule next month? Layla cringed.

"Where I need to be in two places at opposite sides of the country at once?" Abigail groused.

"Precisely... I'm going to need to borrow the company credit card." Layla giggled.

"Start at the beginning, and is it tax deductible?" Abigail said, taking a seat.

.....

It was a stroke of luck, and uncharacteristic bad weather, that caused the visiting relatives to arrive well into the night (even the nocturnal musicians had gone to sleep). It shortened the time they'd have to interact by a few precious hours... and played perfectly into Layla's hands.

Over breakfast, late for the family members but early for the band, the mood was sour and thick enough to slice. Only Rose Explosion's prattle and attempts to draw everyone else into conversation broke the silence of the room.

Well, until Abigail and Layla entered the room; apparently mid-argument.

"... But I don't want to spend the evening with a bunch of self-important wankers!" Layla hissed.

"Hahahahaha! I love it when British people cuss!" Pickles slurred, "Nice to see that little miss boarding school knows a few slurs."

"What's a 'wanker'?" Abigail asked, the drummer providing the appropriate masturbatory hand gestures. "Oh, that's what it means... anyway, it's your fault that I'm double-booked; therefore you have to go go to one event and I'll do the other."

"Everything was fine until the organiser went down with appendicitis the meeting had to be put back by three weeks - how is that my fault?!" Layla squeaked, sliding into her seat at the breakfast table and pouring a cup of tea.

"You are going, and that's the end of it! I'm your boss. I'm telling you to go!" Abigail snapped.

"You're pulling rank?" Nathan breathed, gobsmacked - Abigail just wasn't like that.

"Pulling the rug out from under me! You know I hate things lie that! All that small talk and network bollocks!" Layla had drained the first cup of Earl Grey and moved onto Assam (needing something stronger than her usual blend).

"I don't know what 'bollocks' are." Abigail sighed.

"Balls." Pickes translated.

"Whatsh the problem?" Murderface asked, looking anywhere except at Stella's chewing maw.

"My schedule next week is double-booked. I need to simultaneously be at both an industry conference; as well as at the launch of the videogame that the band did the soundtrack for. They're on opposite sides of the country." Abigail clarified.

"I look stupid in formal dresses! I hate these black-tie events! Why can't I go to the conference and you go to the launch?" Layla sulked.

"Because I out-rank you. And I hate those red-carpet events even more than you do!" Abigail yelled.

"Yous are nots wantings to goes to da party because you nots havings a dresses?" Surfetta asked, baffled.

"I hate shopping for things like that; I always end up looking like a complete idiot." Layla had drained the Assam and was contemplating the other options in the tea selection available to her.

"Well, what about your prom dress, sweetie?" Rose prompted.

"Oakwood Ladies College didn't have a prom. We could invite two family members to afternoon tea with the faculty and Board of Governors."

"And what did you wear?" Molly asked, "Seth's prom date wore such a pretty blush dress..."

"We made our dresses during Textile Technology Class - double period every Tuesday of final year with Mrs. Thornton. Every girl had the same dress - well depending on individual competency with the sewing machine. It was made from the same pattern as everyone else, cut from the same fabric as everyone else." Layla said, linking the TV in the room to her cloud storage and putting her leaver's photo onto the screen.

"That hem isn't straight. The sleeves are different lengths." Stella commented critically.

"I know, the zip was held in with a safety pin too. Sewing is not something I'm particularly good at. Layla said, closing the image as the band started to chuckle.

"Sewn back together wrong, back together wrong, back together wrong." Nathan sung under his breath, earning a chuckle from the rest of the band.

"Not funny, Nathan." Layla hissed.

"They is havings boutiques in da Mordland town, ja?" Surfetta asked.

"Oooh! We could go shopping with you - find you something pretty!" Rose added.

"I haven't been to a boutique in ages!" Molly cooed.

"Oh yes - young women these days don't know how to dress like a lady." Stella continued.

"Indecent. So immodest." Anja whispered - the only words she had uttered so far.

"Here - take the company credit card, we can write a dress off as a business expense." Abigail said with a smug grin as she handed over the plastic, "Try and keep it under two grand; and stick to the independents so you're not accused of favouring one brand over another."

"I not wants to goes to launch of da dildo videos game." Skwisgaar growled, hands clasped around his skull coffee mug, rather than his mother's throat.

"The music was amazing. We're going to add it as a bonus disk on a special edition of the next album - that's the potential for a whole new fanbase listening to your music. The Dethklok fans are guaranteed to purchase the game to get to listen; and you get a cut of each game sold... that means more money for you." Abigail soothed.

"Oh, our boys are going too? Oh Nathan is so handsome in his tuxedo - aren't you, muffin." Rose said, combing her fingers through her son's tresses, "Shame about all this hair though, needs to be cut."

"Why don't we set off shopping after we finish breakfast - we can leave the boys here." Molly announced, the other women (except Layla) agreeing.

Layla's horrified expression was all the confirmed that the matriarchs' expertise was definitely required.

.....

Around the table, Thunderbolt Murderface had drifted off to sleep, uncoupled from the back of his wife's mobility scooter. Oscar and Calvin were sitting in comfortable company, taking full advantage of the massive TV screen and access to premium cable sports channels.

Abigail quietly slipped away to her office, as the band stealthily escaped to the main recreation room.

"Hooooooooly fuck. Layla jhest took one for the team." Pickles pointed out, amazed that the various ladies had left them alone - voluntarily. 

"I didn'ts t'inks she doings t'ings like dat! Shes is proper ladies, not groupies sluts!" Toki gasped, eyes goggled.

"Huh?" Nathan said, baffled.

"Does da you-knows-whats wit da wholes teams playing. Likes da videos you makings me watchings at da old Mordhaus apartments when you ties me to da chair." Toki clarified.

"Dood, you can't remember how to tie your shoelaces... but you remember the first porno we forced you to watch years ago? I'm impressed." Pickles said.

"Toki just prefers buckles on shoes!" their youngest member snipped.

"Pfft. Cheerleader fucks whole teams in da showers - dones to deaths! Is dildos." Skwisgaar grinned. "Don't worryings, I scares offs da jacks off she havings coffees with. Needs our Assistings to nots be distractings froms us."

"So she nots does da you-know-whats wit da whole sportings team?" Toki asked.

"She nots does da you-know-whats wit *anyones*! I makings sures of dat!" the Sweede said.

"Well done. She was drinking coffee - she only drinks tea, must have been serious." Nathan mused.

"Yeah, We need to keep an eye on that." Pickles said.

"Scho, what do we do now? The familiesh are allsh dishtracted." Murderface asked, "I'd cleared my schedhule becaushe of them coming to vishit."

"Lets start with beer." Nathan decided, leading the way.

.....

Most boutique stores wouldn't want to close their doors to the public on a Saturday - a prime shopping day - but for the Dethklok company credit card, they were prepared to be remarkably obliging; and even pulling down the shutters to prevent the paparazzi (which Lalya suspected were there at one of the mothers' notification).

The Band's Assistant had been ushered immediately into the fitting room without even getting to browse - while the other women selected anything they thought was suitable for a video game black-tie event.

Layla managed to fake good grace while she was zipped, buttoned and laced into every single dress in the store; even the sizes too large were pinned to fit. The other women seemed quite happy playing dress-up - and after a few glasses of champagne, they were even managing to tolerate each other as Layla was paraded back and forth in dress after dress.

After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress. After Dress.

It was actually an ensemble outfit that won the day - and to Layla's utter surprise she didn't look a fool.

The halter neck velvet bodice had a deep v-cut that had appealed to Surfetta. It had sewn-in pockets for adding padding to the bust, as the young woman wasn't particularly blessed in that department; however, the construction did highlight her trim waist and dainty shoulders.

Stella had chosen the skirt: a full circle of tulle, supported with layer-upon-layer of frothy petticoats trimmed with lace; reminiscent of something from the 1950s. It was supposed to be a knee length garment, but with Layla's petite frame it came down to mid-calf. Mrs. Murderface considered it an acceptable enough length for a formal event.

Anja approved of the dull grey shades of the fabric - nothing too brightly coloured; not the black of mourning; not the white of innocence. She was not impressed with Surfetta's choice of neckline - but the sales assistant had located a nude halter camisole that provided modesty. A soft pashmina in the same matching grey was draped over Layla's shoulders.

Rose and Molly had been let lose on the store's range of accessories. After much debate of how many inches of stiletto were acceptable for a proper lady, they had chosen a pair of black, patent leather, round-toe kitten heels and matching clutch bag (Layla stressing that it had to be large enough to hold the various items of paraphernalia the band required the essentials were: an epipen, an inhaler and a blood sugar monitor). 

A wide black satin belt had been passed around the young woman's waist, tying at the small of her back - a perfect large bow (supported internally with flexible wires) was pinned over the knot. Molly and Rose lamented the number of bows they had seen that were skewed, untidy and lopsided. They agreed that a corresponding hair bow would change the look from classy to childish.

"Well, Cinderella - it looks like you're going to the ball." Stella declared after a twirl of the final result.

"Right, let me take all this off and pay. We should get back to Mordhaus; we've been gone for five hours!" Layla said, heading back one more time into the fitting room.

.....

The ladies arrived back through the massive gates of Mordhaus in good spirits, chattering back and forth of events they had attended in their youth - even Anja quietly recalled the happiness of the first time she wore the itchy wool habit she favoured. Layla was laden with a rather silly number of cardboard shopping bags - because the little boutique knew that the Dethklok Minute would pick up on it - they wanted every opportunity to flash their logo.

"Heeey there! did you get something?" Pickles said as they entered the main room.

"We did. Its quite lovely." Layla said with a yawn, maintaining her composure had been exhausting.

"Yous havings to shows us!" Toki called, spotting his mother's solemn face and instantly shutting up.

"Gents, can't you wait until the event?" Layla said, knowing that her argument was most likely futile.

"Show us. We should see what has taken all that time to choose." Thunderbolt's machine stated. With a sigh, Layla carted her bags to an adjoining antichmber to change.

After a day of shopping, and a fair bit of champagne, the women were less interested in antagonising their sons and sat almost placid on the couches; enquiring what the men-folk had been up to while they'd been gone. Oscar and Calvin recounted the various games they had viewed - their wives not really paying attention.

"Can someone fasten me up please?" Layla called through a small gap in the door, as he was the closest, Skwisgaar put down his guitar and went to help.

"Is dull as fucks grey." he whispered, eyeing her from top to toe. The blonde efficiently worked through all the fastenings. "You knowings you nots havings da tits for dis outfit, ja?"

"Well, your mother picked it out. I'm sure someone in the costume department can do something to adjust the top." Layla chuckled, leaning on the guitarist as she put the shoes on.

"Dat nots surprisings me... comes on, we can'ts hides in heres much longers."

"They're all going home in the morning; and that's it for another year." she whispered.

"Ja, and we knows whats you dids todays - we nots as stupids as you t'inks we being is." he mumbled back, "Just don'ts be upsets if dat dildo Toki asking yous abouts sports, ja?" Skwisgaar opened the door and twirled her out into the room - the skirt and underskirts floating with the motion. He stayed where he was leaning against the door frame, knowing he'd have to undo all the fastenings again in a moment.

"Awww lookit that!" Pickles cheered.

"What was the damage on the credit card?" Abigail queried, fishing the receipt from one of the bags and was pleasantly surprised.

"Its likes a storm clouds. I likes it." Toki said, very quietly from next to his mother.

"Hmm. Its cute. We'll have to make sure that nobody you know, hits on you or anything. We can't have that." Nathan rumbled.

"My Dad threw my ex into the garden pond the week before I took this post a few months ago... I'm not interested in anyone flirting with me right now." Layla giggled, giving one last twirl before heading back for the antechamber, the lead guitarist following and closing the door.

"We need to findsh out the resht of that sthory." Murderface mumbled.


	10. Dethklok at the Winter Olympics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course, the band members usually wanted to have a try at at least one sport from whichever Olympics they attended - and it took every scrap of Abigail's negotiating, threatening and nagging abilities to keep them away from the events that were technically demanding, physically challenging and really-really-really-dangerous-for-people-who-are-simultaneously-amateurs-and-intoxicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

Dethklok received uncountable sets of free tickets to spectate at sports all over the globe; but it was bad for business for the band to favour one sport over another, one team over another. 

There were secret signed agreements all over the sporting world with various bodies and organisations that prevented the band from going to individual events - it was bad for business to have a posse of rabid Dethklok fans (with limited senses of self-preservation) follow the band to a sporting arena; it usually resulted in slaughter and the game being called off.

However, the Olympic games (Summer and Winter) were perfect - multiple countries, multiple different sports, a true sense of sportsmanship and all eyes on the best athletes in the world, not the musicians in the crowd.

Of course, the band members usually wanted to have a try at at least one sport from whichever Olympics they attended - and it took every scrap of Abigail's negotiating, threatening and nagging abilities to keep them away from the events that were technically demanding, physically challenging and really-really-really-dangerous-for-people-who-are-simultaneously-amateurs-and-intoxicated.

~~~~~

"Doods! Ah've been looking for yah everywhere... why're yah with tha BBC commentators?" Pickles said, bursting into the studio; barefoot and resplendent in stretchy velour, fine mesh fabric and liberally sprinkled with Swarovski crystals.

"Gentlemen, you are on live Television, please do not swear." the bubbly sports journalist said.

"We were... errrm... kinda adopted by the Team GB curling team; they got us in." Nathan rumbled from the couch usually reserved for interviewees.

"Yah what?" the drummer asked, taking a seat.

"When we fell on our... can I say asses? Is ass rude in England?" Nathan began, looking to the amused journalist for help.

"Well, that depends on how you spell it..." she chipped in.

"I think that asses ah prahbably rude where evah yah go." Pickles reasoned.

"Well, when we fell on our butts; is butts ok?" the journalist nodded, "Well, the men's GB curling team cheered. It was brutal - we like them. They helped us up and then helped us to suck a bit less at curling." Nathan chuckled.

"I did noth fall on my butt - I fell on my *fashe*." the bassist said, proudly demonstrating the scraped chin and bruises blossoming darker by the moment.

"Here, I spoke to one of the physios, they have a cold compress for you." Abigail said, gently pressing it to Murderface's blackened eye.

"Oh, thanksh a lot." he said, smiling genuinely at her.

"They adhapted yah? And brought yah to tha BBC?" Pickles asked, momentarily distracted by how the crystals on his shirt caught the light.

"Yeah, we're gonna geth beersh later. They gave ush Team GB shirtsh, claimed ush as their own, taught ush how to do the schweepy thing with the schweepy thingsh and the shlidey thing with the other thingsh. I have no idea about mosht of whatsh the guy from Shotland was shaying to ush... but he shaid whishkey - and I'm cool with that." 

"They didn't know what you were saying either, not when your lip swelled up like that and you were spitting blood. We were seriously awful at sliding the stone things with the handles - we were nowhere near the target... well, not our own target; Murderface got a really good score on the next one over. Kinda screwed with their practice." 

 

"We have some footage - let's take a look!" the commentator said, moving aside so that they could watch the screen behind the desk. The viewers at home were treated to a split-screen.

 

"Oh my Gawd! Thet had to hurt!" Pickles cried as the moment of their fall was played back. Abigail winced and gently petted Murderface's head, searching for any goose eggs.

"It was fun. I'd do it again. Not the falling thing, the curling." Nathan nodded.

 

"Haaaaaaaaa! It just toaaatalllly sthapped half way down the length of it!" Pickles laughed, pointing at the stationary stone on the ice. On screen, the athletes were laughing too.

"That happensh to me a lot, I'm used to it." Murderface muttered under his breath.

 

"Watch here - that was the best one we managed! And they were all doing the thing with the broom-things to get it to there! Brutal! It's a lot harder than it looks!" Nathan growled.

 

"Heeeeeey! Thet was a good score! Lookit that! Smashed all those other ones out the way! Reight in the middle!" Pickles cheered.

"That wash on the target that the team from Japan were practishing on next to ush... they were pretty schwell about it. They're coming for beersh too.". Murderface shrugged.

"Doods, it's gonna be ah regular international party! Ahwesome!" the drummer said.

 

As the footage finished, the commentator listened to the message coming down the earpiece - smiling. "So, Mr. Pickles..."

"Jhest Pickles, if yeh don't mind." he grinned.

"Ok, Pickles... we understand that you've been over at the figure skating rink; do you want to tell us about that?"

"Waaaaaaaaay back in the Snakes n' Barrels days, we did ah video where we were ice skating... had fu--nuthin' at all tah do with tha shang at tha time; but nobodhy cared much..."

 

"We have a clip of that too..." the journalist giggled, Pickles cried out in horror as his 80s self (with considerably more hair and considerably more glitter) competently glided around a rink, singing and strumming his Gold Top.

 

"They found you skates that looked just like those awful cowboy boots? I don't like it." Nathan judged. 

"At no point tahday did I fahll on mah butt or mah face!" Pickles snipped.

"Yesh, but all you did was go around in circhlesh. Schlowly." Murderface pointed out.

"And I managed tah stay on mah feet!" the drummer boasted.

 

"Who are the women? And why are there three of them holding you? Woah! Look at that jumpy spinny thing she just did!" Nathan queried, pointing at the video.

"They're frahm Canaada, Frhance and Ithaly. Real nice ladies." Pickles grinned, "Put ahp with me messing around during their practice. Did some faaaaaaaaaancy moves. Made meh look better than I actually ahm. They talked shamone intah lending me their spare costume... shald prhabably ghet eht dry cleaned and give eht back. Do they have dry cleaning eht tha Olympics?"

 

The journalist walked around the desk and peered into the collar of the top Pickles wore, in search of a laundry tag, "Hmm; I think it's hand wash only. And you need to give it back to the Chinese figure skating team."

"Sahmone make ah note - I'll prahbably fahget - and that's kinda rude." Pickes said.

"Yesh, itsh good mannersh to make schure that you return clothesh back to schomeone freschly laundered." Murderface added.

"Whose clothes have you ever borrowed?" Nathan queried.

"I haven't - itsh wash schomething Charles schaid. Toki had come back from an after party having completely schwapped clothesh with the bassisht from that Icelandich band we met; they were trying to fool the manager into thinking they were identical twinsh."

"Dood... with ahll due repsect, if ahm thinkin' ahf the same time as yah... that bass player was ah woman... Identical twins are tha same sex, and actually look like each other." 

"Yesh. Thatsh precishely the schame time I'm talking about." Murderface gleamed.

"Ahdmittedly, Toki was like seventeen and scrawny - they were similar sizes. Those acid green jeans were awful." Pickles managed to recall.

"Woah... I kinda remember that, I thought I'd just had too much to drink and was seeing things. Did I imagine Skwisgaar sitting on him and using scissors to get a corset off him, because he'd completely tangled the knot at the back?" Nathan asked, scratching his head.

"No, thet happened too; went into the lyrics in a track on the next album..." Pickles said.

"Where are those two, anyway?" Abigail asked, realising they were minus two guitarists.

"Eh hem." The commentator cleared her throat and pointed to the screen, "I believe that they're about to race against each other on a shortened version of the cross-country skiing course."

"Can they even skhii?" Murderface asked.

"Dood, at tha end ahf ahvry tour they go ahn a skiing vacation." Pickles reminded the bassist.

"Murderface you literally wiped your butt with the last postcard Toki sent, the one that said 'we are on a skiing holiday and it is lots of fun. Skwisgaar is still a d--rude word.'; then you put it in a zippy food baggie and had it couriered back to them." Nathan grumbled.

"Oh yesh, I remember now... They can't do that! They're schiing the wrong way! That'sh UP-hill!" Murderface cried.

"That happens on a cross country course; they're both doing quite well." the journalist spoke too soon, "Perhaps not... Wartooth has gone the wrong way and is in the trees; Skwigelf is moving steadily ahead at a comfortable pace." 

"Yeah, Toki is kinda directionally challenged. Gotta make sure he's facing the right way when the front comes off the Dethcube stage." Nathan clarified.

"Is he going to be okay in there?" Abigail worried.

"It looks like the medalists from the womens' race have gone in after Wartooth. They'll find him in a jiffy... And a few others are chasing after Skwigelf, he's stopped, and he's bent double laughing now he's realised his opponent is AWOL." The commentator chuckled as the younger guitarist was led out of the trees by the women. "They are re-starting the race from the point where Skwigelf stopped; and it looks like the female skiers are going to stay around to prevent Wartooth going off-course again... And they're off!"

"Thish ishn't fair really, Sckwisgaar hash much longer legsh than Toki." Murderface analysed.

"Yeah, but Toki's ah lhat more dilligant with his exercise, lhat ah muscle in that rhythm guitarist." Pickles responded.

"They're neck-and-neck, Wartooth slipping back a bit during that turn, but catching back up." The journalist said.

"They're going UP-hill again. That'sh sho wired." Murderface shook his head.

"And some of the lady-skiers are overtaking them both with no trouble whatsoever. Oh, wait they've got the finish line tape and need to get to the end before the two dil--I can't say that word." Nathan politely accepted a steaming cup of coffee in a BBC mug that was handed to him, taking a careful sip. The curling team had joined them with a tray of beverages.

"Cahm on! You can't jehst try tah push each other ovah like thet!" Pickles laughed as the end of their race descended into tugging at clothing and intentional sabotage of the other.

"It appears that the female medalists have a solution... Isn't that nice. Linking everyones' arms together to cross the finish line at the same time." The commentator could hardly be seen as the studio filled up with more people joining the impromptu social club.

"You pair ahf plotting dou--some other bad word! They're putting the moves ahn tha lady skiers! One under each arm." Pickles accused.

"Yeah... Did you not expect that? How are they skiing while holding them?" Nathan asked.

"Haaaaaaaaa! Looksh like someone is jealous, that'sh one hell of a schnowball fight!" Murderface cheered.

"Doods, is there ahn Olympic snowball fight event?" Pickles asked.

"No, there isn't." The journalist answered.

"That schucks, we might win one of thoshe... Fellash, are you thinking what I'm thinking?..."

"Ahfter I find sahme warmer clothes....Last whan there buys tha beers!" Pickles yelled, vaulting over the couch and out of the studio; Nathan, Murderface and the curling team following.

"Er, thanks for putting up with us." Abigail said before she slowly rose and left.

"This is the live Winter Olympic coverage for the BBC. That was Dethklok. Stay with us next for the men's four-man bobsled."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have purposely not attempted to use proper terminology for the events in the Winter Olympics - let's face it, I don't have a clue! I would only be copy/pasting from other sources on the internet; that I don't have the knowledge to be able to tell if it is accurate or not.


	11. Foodoo Voodoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Food Voodoo. Voodoo with food. Foodoo. Good idea for a song." Nathan mused.
> 
> "Sires, weel you be coming eento ze kitchen, or staying een ze hallway?" the chef asked, opening the door the rest of the way. Layla kissed both of his stitch-scar cheeks before making her exit; carrying a plate of yummy stress relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

It had been one of THOSE days.

It it could have gone wrong for Layla today, it had done. If someone could have let her down, they did. Wild geese had been chased all over Mordhaus.

At Kloking-Off time, Layla just couldn't face company. She just wanted a bit of stress relief and then to scuttle off and lick her wounds in private. Deciding on first a shower (while all the other gears on the day shift ate in the basement mess hall); layla scrubbed away much of the day's stress - contemplating the best way to relieve the last of her tension.

She knew just what would work.

~~~~~

Murderface had gone in search of their assistant, and had been unable to locate her. Passing by the band's personal kitchen, he'd been surprised to hear Layla's voice speaking in broken French. Knowing that Jean-Pierre was fiercely territorial of the Elite Kitchen (where he personally prepared every single morsel for the band); Murderface peered around the door, anticipating the dressing down the petite Brit was due.

"Moiderface, whats ams you doings?" Toki mumbled around a mouthful of candy.

"Layla ish trying to cook in Jean-Pierre'sh pershonal kitchen." The bassist whispered.

"Is she havings a death wishings?" Toki said, eyes wide, "Hims not lookings happy."

"We gotta go get the othersh! They have to schee thish!"

~~~~~

Soon the whole band were peering through the door to the Elite Kitchen (the other three members wearing only towels and dripping wet, having immediately left the hot tub at the possibility of watching their chef go bananas. It was always entertaining.)

"Doods, they're... gingerbread men." Pickles said, "A whole lhat of gingerbread men!"

"That's six batches of cookies." Nathan rumbled, breathing in the wonderful scent of fresh baking.

"Does you t'ink dey ams not havings sugars in dem? Will she shares dem?" Toki said, grinning.

"She betters not contaminatings dat kitchen wit t'ings dats I ams beings allergiks to." the blonde snipped.

"I'm pretty sure that Jean-Pierre would go back under the rota of the Hatredkopter than that happen... why are we all peering through the door?" Abigail said, joining them.

"Layla has been baking in the chef's private kitchen." Nathan filled her in.

"Oh dear, today really was too much for her. Poor thing hasn't managed to catch a break all day." Abigail sighed.

"Dat might explainings why she ams snappings da heads offs da cookie mans." Toki squeaked, wide-eyed.

The band and manager looked on as their chef finally stepped out of the shadows and began to chatter away in rapid, passionate French (that Layla's limited high school study couldn't keep up with). He scuttled over to one wall and plunged a patchwork hand into a drawer, then the other. He withdrew an enormous cleaver and a carving knife, blades glinting in the light.

Abigail was about to barge in to defend her right-hand-woman, but was stopped by a fearful Pickles.

"Yah do nhat wanna go in there reht now." the drumer warned.

The watches by the door held their collective breath...

... and were amazed when the chef presented both blades, handle first to the assistant. She tested both knives before deciding on the more elegent carving knife. Jean-Pierre and Layla gave each other an evil look and began systematically hacking the heads off the gingerbread men from either end of the counter top - meeting in the middle with peaceful expressions.

"Do we need to tell Twinkletis about this?" Abigail queried.

"Onlies if dey nots sharing dose cookies wit us." Toki said, licking his lips.

"Dependings if dose cookies wantings to kills me wit da allergiks reacting!" Skwisgaar hissed.

"Better schee schtabbs the baked goodsh that look likesh us, and notsh actually schtabbing the real ush." Murderface reasoned. 

"Awesome, that's like Voodoo." Pickles grinned.

"Food Voodoo. Voodoo with food. Foodoo. Good idea for a song." Nathan mused.

"Sires, weel you be coming eento ze kitchen, or staying een ze hallway?" the chef asked, opening the door the rest of the way. Layla kissed both of his stitch-scar cheeks before making her exit; carrying a plate of yummy stress relief.

"It's the recipe my Nana uses when she bakes cookies for my Dad; they're completely sugar free." she said over her shoulder as she departed in search of privacy.

"And as always, ze eengredients are ze best quality. Zey are also not on ze list of theengs you are not permitted to come eento contact wiz." the chef continued.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck! they're hot! I just burnt my mouth!" Pickles cried.

"Brutal." Nathan chuckled, nibbling away at an arm that had been partially severed by a miss-aimed swing of a blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This method of stress relief was introduced to me at University. I recommend it.


	12. Will Never Be a Grown-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nathan, can you please read our our donation information? Viewers at home, you can see it at the bottom of the screen." The presenter asked, sensing she wasn't going to get anything else out of them.
> 
> "Sure. Numbers are down there, call and give money. If we can get to ten million dollars in donations by Friday, we'll die Skwisgaar's hair pink."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.
> 
>  
> 
> SPECIFIC CHAPTER WARNING: mentions of child terminal illness.

Dethklok typically didn't appear on breakfast television shows for two very good reasons: firstly, they weren't exactly very good at limiting expletives; and secondly, it meant being up, relatively sober, dressed and in makep four-thirty am.

They'd completely turned that on its head today. Devoid of hangovers, the entire band had arrived at the studio at four-fifteen, each clinging to a cardboard coffee cup and misery. This appearance had actually been at their bequest.

Abigail and Layla offered silent company; the two women rotating around the band with little touches of comfort: combing fingers through long hair, palms pressing into shoulders, fingertips ghosting over the backs of hands. They ensured that security knew to admit absolutely nobody into the studio's green room. It was all they could do to help.

During a break in broadcast for advertisements and hourly news headlines, the band were ushered onto the set and settled into the plush bright orange couch opposite the presenter.

"Welcome to Wednesday, and welcome back to 'Breakfast With Tiffany'! As you might be aware, the show are big supporters of several cancer research charities; and all week we've been having a fundraiser. Here today to share their experiences, we have some very special guests - the most famous metal musicians on the entire planet, Dethklok!" The presenter picked up the little cards with the shows logo on them and glanced at her notes while the cameras panned out to show the stoic band.

"Hi guys, thanks for joining us today." The presenter, Tiffany Gregor, was a mid-thirties lady with a pleasant attitude and a thirst for journalism. So far she hadn't had much luck getting her guests to interact.

"Hellos Tiffanies." Toki said, even his usual bright attitude subdued.

"We have to admit, we never expected to be contacted by yourselves wanting to help with our fundraising. Can you tell us what inspired the EP you are releasing and the exclusive benefit concert at the end of the month?"

"Well, Toki does a lot of work with a couple of kids charities, and he asked us to go with him to visit some kids in the hospital; so we all went." Nathan grumbled in his low timbre.

"Yesh, we went to the hoshpital and we were... I don't even know whatsh the wordsh ish." Murderface chipped in, looking to the rest of the band.

"Littles girl, Masie, she abouts sevens. She spends afternoon messings wit mine hair. All hers hair falls outs because of da treatment. I havings bows, an' butterflies hair clips everywhere! Her mama says dat da most exciting she gets for weeks. I shuts up and lets her giggle and braids mine hair intos a tangle... She says I has to keeps da ladybug hair ties." Toki chipped in, demonstrating the bright red elastic with the large resin ladybird that was holding some of his hair back.

"I takes mine guitar and smalls amp, playings some kids songs - nurseries rhyme. Da kids am so sicks, gots tired after two songs. Dis kid, Thomas, eyes lights ups like Christmas when he sees mine guitar. I let's hims sits ins mine lap whiles I plays and da little boy stop singing half way through da wheelies on da bus, just falls asleep. All dese wires and tubes and machines attach to hims! If nots for da bleeps of da monitoring ekwipments, I woulds not knows hims was evens breathing." Skwisgaar whispered.

Another little boy, Bobby, I think four years ahld, he had a toy fire truck on his bed, wearing jammies thet looked like the fire department uniform, soft fire truck blanket wrapped around him... I asked him 'hey little dood, do yah wanna go werk for the fire department when yah grow up?'... He looks at me and says 'Mister, there's a nasty tumour thing in my head making me sick, and the doctor can't make it better. I don't think I'm going to get to be a Grown-Up.'.. what do yah even say to that?" The drummer said, shaking his head.

"We've made it our reason for being to make brutal music... But none of it was as brutal as that visit." Nathan growled.

"Yesh, we came home and we were scho angry. The EP kinda wrote itshelf. We just poured thatsh vischit into the musich. Most brutal thing we hash ever done. Recordsh the whole thing in one afternoon." Murderface finished.

"The record company got it pressed to CD and ready for digital download in record time. Were giving all profits to the charity. The benefit concert is to get more funds into the pot from people with much deeper wallets." 

"That is incredibly generous of you, and we understand you've been visiting the hospital a lot since that first time?" Tiffany prompted.

"Ja, has beens goods to makes da kids happy." Toki said with a smile.

"Nathan, can you please read our our donation information? Viewers at home, you can see it at the bottom of the screen." The presenter asked, sensing she wasn't going to get anything else out of them.

"Sure. Numbers are down there, call and give money. If we can get to ten million dollars in donations by Friday, we'll die Skwisgaar's hair pink." 

"Pfft, you has to catching me first!" The Swede said, instantly pounced on by Murderface and Toki, the little microphones picking up the scuffle.

Pickles fished into his back pocket for his wallet, pulling out his platinum card and giving it to Tiffany, "Take my money, thet I have to see! Hey, if we get twenny mil', we'll die Nathan's hair pink too!"

"Doesn't count if all the funds come from us. Make your donation afterwards, Pickles." Nathan decreed, silently hoping he wasn't going to have his midnight tresses turned pink, and then feeling bad about it - these charities needed all the funds they could to pick up the medical bills for these kids, and fund research into cures.

"Thank you, let's give it up for Dethklok. The EP is out today and is called 'Won't Be a Grown-up', available at all good retailers. And now an update on the weather..."

.....

By Friday at midnight, the total raised was just shy of fifteen million dollars, treble what the show had first aimed to raise. The band quietly arranged to each personally match the value. Several of the medical Klokateers were even offering their skills in their own time to support the charities' research.

.....

Skwisgaar had actually walked into the salon in Mordland with impressive dignity, in full view of twenty different news crews. It meant even more publicity and proved that it was actually his hair and not a wig being tinted - which was one set of rumours flying around the media.

The colour wouldn't be permanent, but was going to take twelve weeks to fully wash out. The semi-permanent colour was the only patch test that hadn't caused a reaction on the Swede's sensitive scalp.

It took three of the salon's prettiest female stylists three hours to apply the pastel-pink die to his long, thick blonde tresses (admittedly, they were working around him playing his guitar; and the rest of the band peering in for a closer look while they worked)... Nobody dared to ask where the three ladies and the Swede - who wore layer upon layer of sectioning foils in his hair, and the wired rubber barber's cape - vanished to while they 'waited for the die to develop'.

Nathan, as a compromise, capitulated to a set of magenta highlights being put into the underneath of his jet black hair. These *were* permanent (the same semi-permanent die as Skwisgaar's just would not take), but the stripes looked impressive when caught by stage lighting.

Toki's designs for limited edition, official Dethklok ladybug hair accessories and pin badges were sported by the entire band (and manager, and assistant, and Klokateers, and Tiffany) at the benefit gig. Selling out on the merchandise pages of the Dethklok website within three minutes. It became commonplace, and a point of bragging amongst the fans, to have the little resin bugs dotted among the audiences at subsequent concerts.

.....

It was a few weeks after the benefit gig when Layla broke the dreadful news that Bobby wouldn't get to become a grown up. 

Pickles demanded that it was arranged for Bobby's tiny white coffin be borne to the funeral on top of the biggest, shiniest, most awesome fire truck available.

At the back of the church, the most famous Metal band to ever exist joined the family mourners in silence.


	13. Tone Of Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Steve, do me a favour and forward every single call from them to any premium-rate sex line you like... uh huh... do we really? ...How much is the kick-back? Wow... I don't think I want to know why that's even a thing... thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

The usual Monday meeting had been a series of interruptions with a smattering of actual work. However, it wasn't the band hindering progress, it was Abigail's BlackDeth Phone.

 

It. Wouldn't. Stop. Ringing. 

 

(The business Dethphone - the 'BlackDeath' had two weeks of battery life on a full charge; and after it was switched on for the first time, it couldn't be switched off. It could be set to vibrate rather than make sound, but not set to fully silent. In Abigail and Layla's opinion, Charles was a masochist for designing it).

 

"Are you, you know, going to get that?" Nathan growled.

 

"No. I'm hoping they'll go away." Abigail snipped.

 

"I told you to never give out your direct dial!" Layla cried.

 

"Ish schomeone bothering you?" Murderface asked, moving to stab the device with his favourite knife. Abigail mouthed 'bullet and stab proof' to him, and he sheathed the weapon - there was no point in blunting it.

 

"No, I just made the mistake of giving my number to one of our suppliers... who promptly passed it on to a newspaper." Abigail sighed as it began to ring again.

 

"So blahk them so they can't ring yew." Pickes chipped in.

 

"I've blocked _fifty_ different phone numbers so far this morning - they're using every single line they have to call me." the manager grumbled, once again blocking a caller.

 

"Why nots you just gettings a new phone?" Skwisgaar mused, staring deeply into the depths of his second skull-mug of coffee.

 

"People do actually need to call that number on a regular basis - just not these persistent buggers." Layla said, draining the last of her cup of Earl Grey.

 

"Wells, whats you doings abouts its? We nots gots anyt'ing done yets todays." Toki piped up.

 

"The next time it rings, give it here. Trust me, they won't call back. Just confirm to me again that you haven't answered a single call from them." Layla snipped, exasperated.

 

"For the tenth time, if someone doesn't come up on caller ID, then I don't answer it. It was the ISD Klokateers who traced the number to the newspaper." just as Abigail finished speaking, the phone rang again, Layla cleared her throat before accepting the call.

 

"Well hello _big boy_ , you've reached Bambi... I'm terribly sorry to spoil the mood, but before things get _interesting_ , I need to tell you that our little conversation is going to be £5.50 per minute; and I'm going to have to take down a few teeny-weeny credit card details from you before things _go further_..."

 

Every single jaw in the room dropped at the tone of voice coming from the British assistant's mouth. It was pitched to be a hybrid of 'chirpy' and 'you could read me the phone book right now and I'd still make a mess of my underpants'.

 

"... Sorry stud, I just can't accept cryptocurrancy..." she moaned, "... Oh I don't know about that, you'd have to check the exchange rate with your bank... mmmm that sounds _ever so good_ ; but I can't hold the line for that long, I'm rather _impatient_ you see..."

 

"... Oh, that's such a shame, I was really looking forward to _spending some time_ with you today... bye bye." she breathed, blowing a kiss at the end.

 

Layla hung up and immediately used her own phone (and own voice) to call the ISD department, "Steve, do me a favour and forward every single call from them to any premium-rate sex line you like... uh huh... do we really? ...How much is the kick-back? Wow... I don't think I want to know why that's even a thing... thank you."

 

Dethklok and Abigail stared at Layla as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head.

 

"You've done that before, haven't you?" Abigail managed to squeak.

 

"Oh God yes! Guaranteed to get every single kitchen sales person, no-win-no-fee accident lawyer and the dreaded PPI calls to hang up. Works a treat." she giggled. 

 

"Has that ever backfired on you?" Nathan asked, chuckling himself.

 

"Not yet it hasn't - though that's the first person to try to negotiate currency, rather than just hanging up." the Assistant's nose wrinkled as she considered this.

 

"Can you jusht schit there and talk to ush? Jusht like that?" Murderface blurted out.

 

"Pretty sure we'd ehmmediately do ahnything yew tell us - if yew tell us just like that." Pickes winked.

 

"Well _gentlemen_ , I'm _all ears_... but first you need to sign the documents I handed out earlier..." she said, returning to the sexy tone. There was a scramble for pens as the band rushed to sign and initial next to the little stickers on the pages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, this works an absolute treat on PPI callers (anyone from the UK will know how much of a pain in the neck they are). They don't ring you back, that's for certain! The trick is not laughing part-way through!


	14. Annual Refresher Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is why we need to have training like this every year! People need to feel safe in the workplace and that they can approach the relevant people with their problems." The psychiatrist snapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an amateur author of false name,  
> I borrow worlds of another’s fame.  
> I stake no claim on recognised locations,  
> Neither do I own canon situations.  
> I merely come here to spend a while,  
> Reading other’s work; writing my own style.  
> I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.  
> I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.  
> I do not mean to step on legal toes,  
> I mean no infringement, I’m friend not foe.  
> So please, do come in, relax, unwind.  
> I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.

The Klokateer department heads, Manager and Assistant were subjected to the annual mandatory Sexual Harassment training in the comfort of the leather seats of the boardroom, rather than standing in the auditorium. As Facebones concluded and the lights were turned back on, Abigail did not look impressed.

"I would like to formally complain about this. It is grossly unfair." Abigail groused.

"But Your Ladyship, since we started showing this video, and fitting the shock collars, cases of Sexual Harassment have reduced by sixty-five percent." Chipped in the hooded head of the Legal department.

"Does it count as sexual harassment if someone submits a business case requesting, and I quote, 'I wanna cum all over your toes while you call me a good boy in that cute British accent'? Where do I stand with that?" Layla queried.

"Oh my God! What did you do?" Abigail cried, stunned.

"I scribbled all over it in red ink correcting the spelling and grammar, then sent it back with a post-it note saying 'good boys know what spell check and a semi-colon are; and would have used the most up-to-date pro-forma. You are not a good boy.' I haven't had another request." Layla replied, completely dead-pan.

"Would you like me to shoot somebody, Mi'lady?" Chipped in the head of security from the other end of the table.

"That's very kind of you to offer, but I handled the situation." Layla politely replied.

"You should have reported it to HR!" Someone else yelled.

"I couldn't -" Layla was cut off by Dr. Twinkletits.

"This is why we need to have training like this every year! People need to feel safe in the workplace and that they can approach the relevant people with their problems." The psychiatrist snapped.

"How _did_ you handle the situation?"Abigail asked, curious.

"I turned up the voltage on the former head of HR's shock collar, I didn't wear the really pretty open-toe heels in his presence, and I said as little as possible to him. We had a perfectly sound working relationship... Then he just left."

"Oh, that would possibly explain the brain damage that caused him to retire." Mumbled the band's personal surgeon.

"So, Your Ladyship, what do you consider unfair about the Sexual Harassment training? I'll see what we can do for next year." The lawyer asked, flicking to a clean page of his yellow legal pad.

"Facebones just told everyone _'if you get a boner at work, go home'_... I will never get a boner at work as I don't have the appropriate anatomy to do so. Why can the males get a cheeky afternoon off because of arousal, but I can't?" Abigail griped.

Around the table nobody had a response.

"Sooooo... Same time next year?" Piped up the head of facilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Today I sat through the annual "please don't do anything morally stupid at work and please don't offend anyone" training (well, it is referred to as the 'joint statement of compliance and ethics' training, but that's the best summary I can come up with). A big wave to anyone reading this thinking 'oh, that *exact* same training is in my inbox too!'
> 
> Thing is, it is Friday afternoon - and the sun has shone for TWO WHOLE DAYS IN A ROW in Blighty - and I got a bit giggly and had my work colleagues watching the Facebones Sexual Harrassment Training on YouTube. It went down a treat! I then had to explain what 'Metalocalypse' is...
> 
> Anyway... This happened. I blame two ladies I work for and a sudden surge of vitamin D for this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: this will be a collection of one-shots. Updates will happen as my muse bites. Each chapter can be considered stand alone (ish).


End file.
